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Message: <blockquote data-quote="The Shaman" data-source="post: 2571961" data-attributes="member: 26473">“I don't think there's much need to worry 'bout hostages, sarge.  That blood is some hours old.  We should let the others know,” Normand tells Sgt. Katsourianis as Marcel finishes treating the grenadier’s wounds.The Greek glances at the stain on the carpet in the entry, then returns his attention to the upstairs landing – he says nothing but his face is grim.Satisfied at last that Normand isn’t going to bleed out from his wounds, Marcel steps outside toward the front wall, to check on his other patient. He is almost bowled over by David Nedjar as the Algerian runs through the gateway and ducks behind the wall. “Hey Doc, that stable hasn’t been cleared yet,” he says, motioning with his submachine gun. “Watch yourself.” Nedjar studies the stable for a moment, then looks back at the farmhouse, the broken glass, the wood splinters and the plaster chunks. His eyebrows rise slightly, then he continues “I’m looking for the sergent.” Told that Kat is inside the farmhouse, he nods and bounds up the steps.Marcel looks back toward the goat pen and sees Asmussen supporting Babaye with his shoulder as they move slowly back toward the small shed, the Scandinavian holding the plasma bottle aloft, the Senegalese leaning heavily on the legionnaire.In the bunkhouse, Vidal keeps the barrel of the MAT-49 aimed at the back of the Arab’s head. “You move and your dead,” he says simply, clearly. He raises his voice slightly. “Pyotr, there’s a rifle on the floor under this bed, and I pulled a bloody knife outta this guy’s pocket.”Pyotr rummages around the stove and the icebox, finding a small spool of thick wire on a shelf. Pyotr: I’ll make your Use Rope/Dex check to secure the prisoner for you - no need to roll. I’m adding a +4 circumstance modifier to your check, FYI.Sitting on the floor of the entrance hall in the farmhouse, Normand sees Nedjar come through the damaged doorway. The Algerian’s eyes open wide as he sees the big Frenchman covered in blood and bandages. “Sergent” he says, acknowledging Kat, then looks again at Normand. “Hand to G_d, you are a sight, Mador,” he announces. Before he can continue, Sgt. Müller appears through the far doorway to the dining room, stepping over the corpse of the Arab.The German sergent-chef’s face is expressionless. “Doc!” he calls out, and Marcel, at the front steps, hustles inside. “Come with me,” says Müller peremptorily. Sgt. Müller leads the medic through the blasted dining room and over the battered body of the Arab, through the doorway beyond. Nedjar watches as they go, then gives his report to Kat – four dead including two combatants, one prisoner, Gaspard slightly wounded, the stable as yet unsecured. Katsourianis listens and replies, “It’s getting dark. Get the prisoner back to the barn with Silvio and Manolo, then take Nedjar and Gaspard to clear the stable.” He glances at his watch. “Get it done quickly – I’ll be along as soon as we’re done here.” Nedjar turns and bustles out the door again.Kat looks at Normand. “How are you doing? Can you move?” he asks.Passing through the doorway, Marcel follows Sgt. Müller into the farmhouse kitchen. Pamuk is there, leaning against a counter, rolling a cigarette. To the left is an open doorway – through the doorway an electric light illuminates a set of stairs leading down. “The colons,” Müller says, his voice emotionless. He tilts his head toward the stairs.Stepping through the doorway, Marcel descends a creaking stairway lit by a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling - a second light shines from a fixture in the basement below. The stench of blood is immediate. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Marcel see four bodies lying on the packed earth floor, the tan soil dark and discolored around each still figure. One is a man in his mid-forties, stocky, mustached. He lies on his back, his mouth and eyes open, the front of his shirt torn. Beside him is a younger man, late teens perhaps, laying face down, his head turned to one side away from Marcel. Beyond the two men is a woman, late thirties, bottle-blond, in a simple floral-print dress once cream-colored but now stained the color of old wine. The last body is huddled in a corner, a young girl, fourteen or fifteen at most, her head tilted at an awkward angle, long brown hair hanging over her face.Marcel stares at the last figure for a moment, puzzled by the odd position of her head – as his eyes adjust to the shadows in the corner he realizes that her throat has been slashed from ear to ear, nearly severing her head from her body and canting it over her shoulder. The other bodies display similar injuries.</blockquote>

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